


Wish Upon a Star

by vanillafluffy



Category: Captain America (Movies), I Dream of Jeannie, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: "I Dream of Jeannie" fusion, Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Djinni & Genies, M/M, Steve is Tony's djinn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 14:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10641774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: When Tony's flight suit crash-lands him on a tropical island, he finds more than he bargained for in an old bottle.





	

“JARVIS! Reboot! Reboot!” Tony screams as he plummets earthward. The latest experimental flight suit has gone dead without warning, and he’s at 5,000 feet over the Pacific and falling fast.

The AI is silent. If he hits the ocean in an unresponsive suit, he’s liable to drown before he can get out of it. It’s supposed to be water-proof, but it’s also supposed to have an onboard AI

There’s a speck of something down there, and Tony tries to steer himself that way. Maybe it’s a ship. At this point, he’ll risk pirates, smugglers, unwashed fishermen-- _anything_ to avoid drowning. (He still has traumatic memories of St. Tropez when he was a kid, and that nanny who’d been too busy gossiping to notice he’d gone into the water.)

The closer he gets, the bigger it gets, and holy shit, it’s an actual island. It looks to be about a mile square, there’s a lot of foliage--it isn’t just palm trees. It looks like he’s going to hit right around the tide line, which is great. Nice soft sand and not enough water to drown him, and it beats the hell out of getting impaled by a palm tree.

 _Stay loose,_ he tells himself. _That’s how drunks survive car accidents, by staying loose._

He lands flat on his back, half-buried in sand and surf, and he flails wildly to sit up. Something clangs against his left leg, and like his morning isn’t going rough enough, there’s a four-foot shark trying to find out of he’s edible. Apparently deciding he’s not, it swims off.

“I don’t believe this shit,” he says aloud. “It’s not even Friday the 13th!”

He manages to get to his feet and lumber ashore. It’s searing hot, and Tony is beginning to feel like a foil-wrapped bundle being roasted for a clambake. He makes his way to the treeline and starts laboriously taking the suit off. This would be _much_ easier if the AI was working. There are so-called manual releases, of course, but they’re time-consuming. By time he’s shed the flight suit, Tony is a sweaty mess.

From the thriving jungle on the small island, there’s got to be water somewhere. First thing to do is walk around it and see if there are any streams running out to the ocean. 

He leaves the suit, figuring it will give him a landmark so he’ll know where he started from. 

As tropical island paradises go, Tony has to admit, this one is pretty. The wide, sandy beaches are the color of champagne and boast a few dramatic coral rock formations. There are all kinds of interesting shells--Tony may grab a few for his assistant, assuming he ever gets back to civilization to give them to her. There’s--a bottle?

The blue neck protrudes from the sand, and it has a fancy stopper in the shape of a star. Tony carefully scoops the warm sand away from it. He revises his first assessment. This isn’t just a bottle, it’s a beautifully crafted decanter in shades of cobalt blue with white enameled stars and thin bands of red. It’s really amazing workmanship, and even if it’s empty--he can’t feel anything slosh when he shakes it--he can fill it from whatever spring or stream he finds. Although if there’s a message in it, he’s not gonna know til he opens and upends it.

After wiping the last clinging particles of sand from it, Tony carefully works loose the stopper of the decanter. Immediately, blue smoke begins to pour from it, and he stares at the cloud in stupefaction. Some kind of chemical reaction to air, maybe?

When the smoke dissipates, there’s a man standing there. A very _big_ man, Tony thinks, dazed. He’s really tall, he’s impressively muscular with shoulders out to _there_ \--how in the world did he ever fit into that little old bottle?! 

All the old stories he’s ever heard about genies or djinn originate in the Middle East, but this guy looks impressively Anglo. His hair is blondish, his eyes are as blue as the sky he’s silhouetted against, and with his chiseled features, he looks like he should be modeling haute couture beachwear for _International Male_.

He stands with his arms tight at his sides and bows to Tony. “I serve at your pleasure, Your Lordship,” he says. “I am Nait-pac Acirema.”

In English, Tony realizes. Absolutely flawless American English, with a tinge of something familiar…. “Okay, look, Natpac Macarena, let me get this straight--you are a genie, am I right?”

“That’s right, I’m a djinn,” says the pretty man, who somehow manages to retain his dignity despite wearing nothing but an embroidered indigo suede vest and sheer, gauzy blue lounging pants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. “And my correct name is Nait-pac Acirema.”

“So you can grant wishes?” Tony asks hopefully, because getting the hell off this island in time for dinner would be excellent. “And if so, how many do I get?”

“That depends on what Your Lordship requires,” says Natpac Macarena. “I have limitations, but you do not. I’m here to serve you. Ask for whatever you need and I will grant you whatever I can.”

Brooklyn, that’s what Tony hears. His accent is nowhere near as strong as Happy’s, but his djinn certainly sounds like he hails from New York City.

“So, what _can’t_ you do?”

The dinn looks solemn. “I can’t change the past, and I can’t raise the dead.” There’s something in his tone that suggests he wishes both feats were within his power. He smiles slightly, as if to lighten the moment. “And I’m a terrible cook.”

“I have a chef at home, the rest of it is kinda creepy…I could use a drink.” Tony holds up the decanter. “Could you fill this with cold, fresh water?”

“Your Lordship might prefer his drink from a container which hasn’t been inhabited for a prolonged period of time. Would this be satisfactory?” 

He offers a red and gold vessel to Tony. Even through the glass, he can feel the chill of its contents. After his first cautious sip, Tony drinks deeply. It’s pure in a way no bottled water could ever be, and it’s as cold as if it leaked from a rain cloud over the Rockies. With his thirst is quenched, Tony asks, “Would it be within your powers to take me somewhere else?”

“Certainly, as long as I knew where it was.” 

“If you saw a picture of the place, would that do it?”

“If it was a good enough picture.”

“Okay, great. First, though, I need to go back and get my flight suit, and maybe pick up a few shells along the way. Can you get me something to put some shells in?”

Soon, Tony is holding a basket and sitting beside the djinn on an actual flying carpet. Hey, why not? Might as well enjoy the experience. The rug is bright with swirls of color that look like fireworks, and it glides smoothly a few inches above the beach. He’d had to convince his new friend not to summon every shell for miles around--he wants to actually pick these out himself, he insists. It’s a more personal gift that way, and he makes sure none of the shells are still occupied. 

By the time they draw up to the flight suit, the basket is heaped with pretty shells, pieces of sea-glass and coral, and a fist-sized piece of driftwood that’s silver with age. Pepper will be thrilled, Tony thinks, although it remains to be seen what she’ll make of the djinn.

“You remind me of someone.,” Tony says. “ We couldn’t have met before, could we?”

Macarena smiles. “I manifest in the form you desire, Your Lordship. If I call someone to mind, it’s someone you were attracted to.”

Hell, if that’s the case, the template probably _was_ an _International Male_ swimwear model. “Okay, enough of this ‘Your Lordship’ business. Call me Tony.”

The djinn looks perplexed. He points to Tony’s leg. “Toe-knee?”

“All one word, say it with me fast: Tony. It’s the affectionate form of Anthony, which is my given name.”

“Ah,” breathes the blue-eyed manifestation of his desire. “Affection….”

Tony finds himself being kissed in a way that’s very difficult to resist, but he does. “Hold it, hold it. I know sex on the beach sounds fantastic, but I’ve been there and done that, and it isn’t worth it. You end up with sand in unspeakable places. Let’s go home.”

He digs out his phone and calls up a recent picture of his workshop. “There’s a big cleared space right there.” He taps the screen. “There ought to be plenty of room for us and the suit.”

“Nice work, Macarena,” Tony says as they are transported, carpet, fight suit and all to his workshop-garage. 

“Assay-RAYM-ah,” the djinn says. He looks like he might be working up to a pout, when he tilts his head, looking at something over Tony’s shoulder.

Tony turns to look, and immediately feels like an idiot. One of the things he inherited from his dad’s many collections was that life-size poster of the WWII hero, Captain America. He’d grown up in the shadow of that poster, in the shadow of that hero, always wanting to be like him, always wishing he had someone great and noble like him to be intimate with instead of the string of users and losers he’d dated. “You know, maybe you need an affectionate name, too,” he says.

Ten minutes later, they’re in the living room. Tony is reclining on the couch with the djinn between his legs, giving him the blow job of the century, when Pepper enters. 

“Hello,” his assistant says, and the djinn immediately leaps to attention. “I didn’t hear you get back.”

“At ease,” Tony sighs, deprived of the marvelous mouth. “This is not the worst thing she’s ever caught me doing.”

“No,” Pepper agrees. “He isn’t the entire Romanian soccer team.”

“I brought you back some shells.” 

He nods to the basket of goodies on the coffee table, and though she looks pleased, his assistant is a stickler for basic courtesy. “And who is this? Hi there,” she says in an aside to the blue-clad hottie. “I’m Pepper Potts.”

The djinn takes a deep breath, but Tony beats him to it. “I’d like you to meet my friend, Steve.”

...


End file.
